


Purgatory

by kelex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, Sherlock,  and Mary are all in hells of their own making.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> Leans obviously towards Johnlock, though nothing is explicit in the least.

John was in trouble, and Sherlock couldn't help. That, to Sherlock, was what he imagined Hell--if it really existed--would be like. Standing helpless as he watched John in agony.

A physical agony, Sherlock could've dealt with that. _John, you're a doctor. As the saying goes, physician, heal thyself ,_ and some glib advice for good measure. But this inner turmoil was not anything he was equipped to deal with. There was no open wound to put a plaster on, nothing to bandage up, no injury to heal.

And even worse, it seemed like his presence made things more difficult. He wouldn't even know where to begin, but it was impossible for him to even offer moral support, whatever the hell that meant. Whenever he was near John, Sherlock's internal awareness was so painfully acute he could almost taste blood from John's bitten tongue.

He wanted to come to John's rescue, but he had no idea how. 

\-----

John was in Hell, and had only himself to blame. Yes, everybody he surrounded himself with had some degree of psychopathy. But he could live with that so long as Lestrade remained the sane one.

But Sherlock, and Mary, and Sherlock and Mary... Maybe he should've just killed them both, solve all his problems. Except that was his own inner sociopath--a voice that sounded remarkably like Sherlock Holmes these days--that he was trying to ignore. 

He still felt deeply for Mary, but something was irrevocably changed, broken deep down in places he would never be able to fix.

Ironically, it had been the break (utter shattering) of his relationship (don't start) with Sherlock that had pushed him, grief-stricken, into the waiting arms of Mary Morstan. And now, it was the break (yawning crevasse) between himself and Mary that sent John spinning back towards Sherlock like a pinball. 

John was not like Harry Watson; he wasn't going to leave Mary the way Harry had left Clara. But being around Sherlock was Hell on Earth. He'd seen Sherlock murder a man in cold blood for him. For Mary, for their unborn child who was going to have a godfather named Sherlock Holmes. 

He could almost hear it in his head. _It's balancing the scales, John. You protected me our very first case together. It's only fair that I protect you at the last._

Didn't care. He just didn't care. John just wanted a simple choice, the right choice, the only choice. But it wasn't nearly that easy.

\-----

John was in turmoil, and Mary's heart was breaking. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, she could feel a little bit more of John slipping away.

She hadn't wanted anything to happen the way it had. It should've been her bullet that ended Magnussen; Sherlock and John should never have come up. Shooting Sherlock had been a mistake--she had a feeling that was the beginning of the end. But she had done her best to save his life, and while Sherlock held no grudges... well, John did.

And then he'd pulled the trigger. Sherlock finished what she'd tried to do, and paid for it with exile. Even though John stood by her side, a crook of Sherlock's finger would be enough to send John scurrying. 

And a part of Mary was thankful for Sherlock's strength. She was well-aware of the fact that Sherlock had quite deliberately **not** asked John along. Sherlock loved John enough to let him go; she wasn't sure if John could let Sherlock go.

But it was all a moot point now. The plane taxied back down the runway, returning Sherlock to the place he most belonged.

\-----

A cold wind blew across the tarmac, and the plane door opened to reveal John and Mary waiting. 

John, the constant doctor, standing just apart from his pregnant wife. John, face lined with a welcoming smile that enveloped Sherlock more warmly than an embrace ever could.

Sherlock, the consulting detective, coat collar flipped up just to make John roll his eyes. Sherlock, who loved John Watson more than his own life. Sherlock, who let his best friend grieve. Better grief than suffering. 

Mary, the wife, til death do us part. The woman on the outside who nevertheless had everything that mattered in the world. 

But for how much longer?

End


End file.
